


The Pole

by Zaxal



Category: Psych
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Strippers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaxal/pseuds/Zaxal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlton attends an officer's bachelor party, but where the hell is Shawn?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pole

Every time he thinks about what he's doing, he grits his teeth, clutches the steering wheel like he's trying to strangle someone, and he keeps driving. He knows better than this – knows that the answers to a man's problems don't lie at a building colored brightly pink, neon flashing in the windows, calling in lonely men to give them a momentary fantasy to make their lives less miserable. He's been that desperate before, but not for a long time. And when he was, he had the decency to be alone.

Bachelor parties. Carlton remembers his own with a twitch in his eye, his teeth digging into the inside of his lower lip the way he always does when he's angry. His then-partner had called him just after his shift ended, saying he could come work some of his frustrations out at a situation happening at one of the strip clubs in town. Aaron had known damn well the loathing Carlton had towards surprises, but he'd forced him to endure hours of girls grinding against him, preparing him for the monogamy in his immediate future. Carlton had started drinking not long after it started just to make the ordeal more bearable. He had been more furious about it than Victoria, who had laughed and told him to stop overreacting. He thought she was sweet on Aaron. He still thinks she was.

Regardless, he's on his way now to someone else's miserable attempt to remind them of exactly why they're in a committed relationship. He understood the appeal on a fundamental level, sure. Women dancing provocatively? Even he wasn't immune. But then you start thinking about possible histories of sexual abuse and daddy issues and then it's not quite so fun, is it? It's hard to think about, but he can't stop himself.

He thinks he'll get a drink the moment he steps into the club, before he even meets up with the other officers. He needs something to dull his edges today. He's been wound up tight all week. O'Hara took the week off to fly back to Miami for some reason or another. Henry's taken to humming something unidentifiable during work hours, and it's driving him nuts every time he hears it. Guster has been refusing to help Carlton tap to relieve stress and help him think, and it feels silly when he does it alone. But with Gus, it feels almost fun. And Guster enjoys it and has been teaching him. It's nice to have something like that. It's almost as good as a few hours spent at the shooting range. But this week, there's been nothing, and he misses it in a way he feels like he shouldn't.

Then there's Shawn. Who has been practically digging his little thorn into Carlton's side all week, wheedling deeper beneath his skin. Probably trying to somehow puncture a vital organ, the bastard. He's been the worst part of it all. Shawn knows how to help him the most. Shawn, psychic or no, Carlton stopped caring years ago, always knows how to make everything better. And, this week, he just won't. He's been making it worse. Showing up at work to be as annoying as possible. Texting Carlton while he was on a stakeout to give him the play-by-play of the pornography he was watching in the office, knowing it would rile Carlton up even though he'd need to be stationary and alert for several hours more with McNab riding shotgun for Christ's sake. The worst, though, the absolute worst is possibly his entire apathy towards Carlton on any sort of personal level while purposefully disrupting his schedule. Making him late for work, using all the hot water just before Carlton gets home and needs a shower, "losing" things Carlton needs. Hiding all of his hidden guns Thursday evening before Carlton can do his routine inspection to make sure they're all ready to go, just in case. How many times is he going to have to tell Shawn that Where's Waldo isn't fun when Waldo is a loaded gun? At least once more. Possibly while lashing him with his belt, just to make sure the message really sinks in.

He gets out of his car and locks it, trying with every step to get rid of his murderous thoughts towards his boyfriend. They're so deeply etched that Carlton isn't sure they can ever be erased. Which is all right in the end, because Shawn loves making him angry, hearing that snarl like he's a criminal in need of serious correction. Carlton almost hates that, but he adores it too much instead. Carlton steps inside, eyes automatically searching for details and exits as his eyes adjust to the half-lighting of the club.

The officers are all crowded around a series of tables close to the main stage, and Carlton forces himself to not grimace quite as much as he walks over. He should get drunk. Spend this Friday night like he's 20 again with no regrets until tomorrow. Maybe make Shawn take care of him and his hangover. Shawn's conscience isn't a very loud entity – Carlton's convinced his shoulder angel got tied up and gagged and possibly tortured by Shawn's multiple shoulder devils – but when it does pipe up, Shawn usually listens. He's good at being quiet when Carlton's hungover, at least, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth when he realizes that he's considering putting himself in actual pain because it's the only way Shawn takes anything seriously.

Instead of drinking, he settles in next to the other officers. One of the guys from Internal Affairs is here, and Carlton doesn't care if he's going to be the best man at the wedding tomorrow, those assholes don't belong mixed in with the people they are constantly trying to fuck over. Unnecessary Discharge of Firearm. Easy for them to say. They aren't out there in the field doing real work. They don't know what it's like when his only option isn't going to be the popular or likeable option but dammit, he'd had to.

McNab is the only person who willingly sits next to him. "Your wife know you're here?" Carlton sees his dopey, friendly smile and hates himself for hating it.

"Sure does. She baked cookies even though I told her not to. She's just too sweet." They both are. Carlton is sure that he's going to have diabetes between the two of them and Shawn's incessant need to slurp on something sugary at every waking hour of the day. "Is Shawn coming to this?"

"He's supposed to." Shawn never does what he's supposed to so that probably means no. He may have a private case – even though he usually texts when he does in case it intersects with police work – or he forgot or he knows it'll drive Carlton nuts to be left here alone with people he really doesn't like no matter how hard he tries.

A dancer comes out on the stage wearing a slutty school girl uniform, and Carlton looks away without interest. He can get away with that now, luckily enough. The entire station knows they're dating now. They think he's switched teams, which means he can get away with being bored with female strippers without having his manhood questioned. Not that he particularly cares about what these people think of him.

He sees one of the officers from Traffic whispering to the Internal Affairs jackass. They both glance non-discreetly at him, and Carlton sneers at them. It could be about anything, honestly. About his latest case fuckup two days ago, about how much he had yelled at everyone today, about the fact that he's a presumably gay man at a strip club for a bachelor party for someone whom he tolerates at best. Something inside him – sounding suspiciously like Shawn – whispers that maybe they want to come over and make sure he's having a good time. Maybe they want to be friends.

"Bullshit," he mumbles as McNab ogles the woman on stage. He sees stars in the young man's eyes like he hasn't seen breasts before and just discovered that they are the most amazing thing hand-crafted by a loving God above.

They're not fake, he'll give her that. And the way she moves has him thinking appropriate (or inappropriate) thoughts, about how he'd like to have his hands and mouth on them, on her. She wraps her legs around the pole, her skirt riding up, and he sees a scar on her thigh and feels like crawling into the bathroom and hanging himself with his tie.

He should probably feel bad about having sexual thoughts about people other than his significant other, but Shawn is just as bad. And, unlike Carlton, Shawn likes telling his boyfriend about them. Shawn likes him jealous, insecure, worried. He thinks if the game stops, then so will they, and Carlton enjoys it too much to make that idiot realize that he's not going anywhere. And that if Shawn tries to, Carlton will handcuff them together and throw the key into the Pacific.

Except that happened once on a case, and Shawn let them stay cuffed together until his big final reveal when the bastard unlocked the cuffs in a manner of seconds. Carlton thinks that feeling murderous and being in love feel a lot alike sometimes.

He keeps looking for Shawn and, instead, finds Gus. "Guster?"

"Hey, Lassie." He draws a chair up to their table away from everyone else. "Shawn said you could use the company."

"Where is he?" McNab asks because Carlton is too tired to. Of course Shawn would send Gus to do his job. Carlton is amazed that he hasn't come home to Guster wearing next to nothing, seducing him in Shawn's place. Honestly, if Shawn could talk his best friend into it, Carlton thinks he would. He needs a drink. He doesn't get one.

"I have no idea. He said he was on his way down here, but he wanted to stop and pick something up from home first." Carlton glances at Gus because that's odd. Shawn didn't forget anything this morning, made no mention of needing something when he'd forced Carlton on a lunch break earlier today.

"Did he say what he was picking up?" Carlton is suspicious. Carlton is always suspicious, and dating someone who feeds his paranoia by justifying it is either the best or worst thing that's ever happened to him.

"Nope. But he was being super shifty. Like he's got a surprise or something?" Carlton idly wonders if Shawn is about to make up for being a terrible boyfriend all week, but then he remembers the word 'surprise' and knows that Shawn is still edging towards Needs To Be Spanked territory. Shawn's surprises aren't all bad, he supposes, but he'd prefer some sort of lead in to it. Shawn knows to text him by now. Just something quick like _I can't wait for you to get home_ or _My safeword is fruitilicious_. He checks his phone just to be sure, but there's nothing.

"I can't wait," he keeps the enthusiasm out of his voice as the dancer disappears off the stage. There's a redhead giving a dance to the lucky groom while men hoot and cheer like she's some sort of spectacle and not a human being. She's getting paid for it, but Carlton can't put a price on dehumanization. It's a skill he never learned like forming normal interpersonal relationships and roller skating. 

The curtains behind the stage ruffle, and Carlton thinks that he'll suffer through one more, just one, and then he'll go home and jerk off or something to make himself less tense and bitter. Just something to get his mind off of everything.

Which turns out to be a surprisingly easy thing to do because the next dancer steps out on the stage, and Carlton's mind whites out. He can't think of anything, can't focus on anything except the blood pounding in his ears and the heat rushing to his face. Finally, a thought manages to come through, quiet but firm, like he means it.

He's going to kill Shawn.

Shawn walks out on the stage, wearing tight black shorts that leave very little to the imagination, a leather vest swaying on his shoulders, his top otherwise bare. Their handcuffs – the handcuffs he bought Shawn months ago specifically for their bedroom – are swinging halfway out of the vest's pocket, and he has a costumed cop hat perched at an insolent angle on top his head. He looks directly at Carlton who has bitten down on the inside of his lip again and is trying not to think about the fact that a good number of his coworkers are watching his boyfriend as he brings their private lives out in public.

Shawn winks at him, twirls in place as if to say _Look at me, Lassie_. Carlton wonders if it's possible to fuck the attention whore out of him. Why he didn't think to try that before? Shawn backs into the pole, his hands gripping above him. He slides down, the muscles in his leg rippling and tensing so perfectly. Carlton wants to sink his teeth into them. Shawn rises back up, arching against the pole, his vest sliding slightly down his shoulders as he rolls his hips and body forward and up. Carlton swears he can hear him breathing even though the music is thumping and Gus is murmuring murderously next to him.

"I'm gonna kill him. I did not want to see this today. My weekend is ruined, and it hasn't even started yet. I'm gonna just kill him." Carlton can tell that Gus and a few others have turned away, but McNab, IA Asshole, and half of the other officers are watching as Shawn twists towards the pole.

He fishes the handcuffs out of the vest pocket before he lets the vest fall to the floor. He loops them around the pole and his wrists loose enough that he can escape when he needs to. They glint in the light, and he hears someone masculine gasp as Shawn pushes his ass out, his back glistening in the spotlight. Carlton feels himself flush, and he's almost disappointed to find that he's no longer angry. Oh, sure, he didn't exactly want this, but they're all seeing it. All of them are seeing what belongs to him, knowing they mustn't touch while Carlton can and intends to touch Shawn everywhere after this is over.

He wonders how many of them are going to leave wondering about whether or not they found this hot, and he almost smiles. They'll see Shawn at the station, see him sitting on Carlton's desk and think of him like this as he bends, pressing his hips against the pole as he swings around, picking up momentum before he jumps up, hands and legs clutching as he contorts, showing off more of himself. He wraps his leg around the gleaming metal and thrusts against it. His body starts to faintly glisten from his sweat as he slides back down until his feet touch the floor. He twists so his back is to the pole, his wrists crossed above his head as he grinds, rolls his body, dances invitingly. 

They'll think of him as the wanton hussy that he is, and the moment any of them so much as look at Shawn wrong, Carlton is going to put them in their place. Slide his arm around Shawn, tug him close, and give them a shark's grin to make it clear that no one is to touch what's his. Not even if Shawn asks, which he is. He's asking for it now, his head thrown against the silver pole, the hat tumbling to the floor as Shawn closes his eyes, swallows nervously and moans so softly that Carlton almost doesn't hear it over the music. He's asking to be touched by, ruined and marred by everyone else in the room.

Carlton swallows dryly when he realizes that Shawn is sending him a different message. It's part of the game, part of the eternal puzzle Shawn is convinced needs to be solved and resolved to prove some point about them both being so crazy in love, so perfect for each other. And it all hinges on the costume of choice and the handcuffs. He somehow has a feeling it's the last time Shawn's going to wear them tonight.

Shawn breathes for a moment, his eye sliding open and looking directly at Carlton before the music and lights cut. He sees Shawn compose himself, loosening the handcuffs to get himself free before he vanishes offstage. He swears he hears girls cheering backstage, and it somehow doesn't surprise him that Shawn is friends with the strippers. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if he had somehow become best friends with most of them in the week since Carlton decided that he was going to this thing. Shawn has always been the sociable one, not him.

He exits the club and makes his way around back where Shawn emerges, wearing jeans and an t-shirt beneath his vest. Carlton grabs him and kisses him fiercely before either of them can manage so much as a hello. The moment they part, Carlton says, "If you ever do that again, I'm going to kill you."

"You loved it." Carlton knows well that Shawn has no shame whatsoever, but there's a flush in his cheeks. He's pleased with himself and with Carlton, and that makes him feel warm all over.

"Yes, I did." There's no point in denying it. "But in front of all of them?"

The bridge of his nose crinkles, and he shakes his head, "It was all for you. Know you've had a rough week, and you deserve something nice, Lassie. And this is just Act One."

"Exhibitionist," he says, gently accusing.

"Peeping LassieTom," Shawn grins then kisses him gently. "We're a matching pair." He grabs Carlton's hand, his fingers twining with his as he leads him towards the car.


End file.
